Chapter II

Sometimes it’s all alone—
Sometimes in a crowd;
It says a thousand bright things,
But never talks aloud.
Everybody loves it,
And likes to have it call,
But if you shouldn’t happen to,
It wouldn’t care at all.
First you see or hear of it,
It’s a-singing,—then
You may look and listen,
But it never sings again.

THE LOVELY CHILD

Lilies are both pure and fair,
Growing ’midst the roses there—
Roses, too, both red and pink,
Are quite beautiful, I think.

But of all bright blossoms—best—
Purest—fairest—loveliest,—
Could there be a sweeter thing
Than a primrose, blossoming?

THE YELLOWBIRD

Hey! my little Yellowbird,
What you doing there?
Like a flashing sun-ray,
Flitting everywhere:
Dangling down the tall weeds
And the hollyhocks,
And the lordly sunflowers
Along the garden-walks.

Ho! my gallant Golden-bill,
Pecking ’mongst the weeds,
You must have for breakfast
Golden flower-seeds:
Won’t you tell a little fellow
What you have for _tea_?—
’Spect a peck o’ yellow, mellow
Pippin on the tree.

ENVOY

When but a little boy, it seemed
My dearest rapture ran
In fancy ever, when I dreamed
I was a man—a man!

Now—sad perversity!—my theme
Of rarest, purest joy
Is when, in fancy blest, I dream
I am a little boy.